Woman in a White Dress
by backdrifter
Summary: Ben's life on the island, as told by him, and an attempt to unravel and explain the character. A life full of family love and family hate, rivalries and conflict, frustrations and forbidden loves, secrets, manipulations, coincidences, lies and truths...
1. Part I

**1**

When my little sister was a month old, our mother died. I was just thirteen. My father and I were suddenly adrift with a small, alien creature under our protection. In the months leading to my sister's birth I had grown difficult. Grief forced my father and I further apart. We mourned my mother alone. We were, after all, mourning different things.

At first, however, we learnt to look after Sabine together, but at some point or other, I fell into full responsibility over my little sister. I didn't exactly have much else to do. At least, I had none of the responsibilities of my father.

I became Sabine's mother and friend as well as her caring elder brother. I was her playmate. I cooked for her. I changed her sheets when she wet the bed. My father doted on her when he was around, and she adored him, but it was my room she ran to when she had a nightmare. It was I to whom she whispered frightened tales of bleeding woman, and giant silver birds ripping in two in the sky above.

Despite my relationship with Sabine, I was a withdrawn teenager and developed into a withdrawn young man. As Sabine grew up, it became clear that we were nothing alike. She was sunshine. She was joy. She made everyone smile and laugh. She was gentle and bright and trusting and never did an untrue word pass her lips.

While I buried myself in books – philosophy, the great classics, history, psychology – Sabine was exploring the world and the people around her. I filled my head with general knowledge, hungry for information from the outside world, and she was content in the here and now, in what the island and her own existence gave her. She could sing and dance, and Amelia taught her to make wicker baskets. She taught herself to paint.

If it had not been for Sabine, I don't know what would have happened to me, for without her I would have been alone. My relationship Even before my mother was pregnant with Sabine, he never looked at me straight in the eye. I think he was jealous of my mother's affection for me. I competed with him quite obviously for attention. I was a clingy child. I had a pang of irritation every time my mother was affectionate with him. When they touched I had to run over and make it a family hug. How very Oedipal.

I've made myself sound rather bad. Let me readdress the balance. I was always pale, small, a bookworm. The other, few, children on the island were constantly running about and getting into scraps. I preferred to sit with a book. My father disliked this, and tried to discourage it, but to no avail. By the age of eight I had developed the need for glasses because of reading in poor light, secretly, late at night. My father's resentment of how I behaved grew. He had never been an academic man.

It was this that led me to cling to my mother. She had nothing but motherly feelings for me. She did not judge my passions. She listened patiently to my latest discovery. I might tell her about Oliver Twist's adventures, or some ghastly facts about hot air balloons, or how the Romans had built a wall clear across Scotland, from one sea to another (and how Scotland was far bigger than our Island).

When my mother died the competition stopped, and there was mere silence between us. We were strangers who moved around each other from day to day with only Sabine in common. To me he was nothing but the man who had given my name; Benjamin Linus.


	2. Part II

A/N - Thanks for the reviews! I was going to wait a few days before adding the second part, but, damnit, I have no self control.

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**2**

I've gone on about how wonderful my sister became, and I've neglected to mention one thing; my father never got to see her bloom into the beautiful, talented woman she did. He died. He fell off a cliff and broke his neck. It was a tragic accident. What I felt I don't believe I can express to you, but I'll tell you this; it involved a horrible sinking felling in my stomach and a loss of pressure from my chest.

The last birthday of Sabine's that my father saw was her fifth. I'd racked my brain for weeks as to what I could get her. Amelia had made a pretty dress with large, orange flowers on it. Tom had got her a doll. Finally I came up with an idea.

For about a week I would disappear for hours at a time, and return sunburnt and covered in dirt. My father noticed, and made pointed comments about seventeen being an odd age for a boy to start rolling around in the mud. When I ignored him, he picked an argument with me.

"Stomping mud around the house," was the crime I'd committed. I looked down at my socks – I'd taken off my boots. They were white (grey, actually).

"Dad, I left my boots outside," I said calmly. I didn't mention that even if I hadn't, then it would be me cleaning it up. Despite this, I wasn't clear of guilt. Being cocky was the next offence, and then he made a point in walking over to where I was standing, and pointing out several clods of dirt that must have been clinging to my clothes.

I did the easiest and smartest thing; I apologised. In my head I wanted to do all sorts of things. Talk back. Go back outside and put my boots back on, and then stomp around the house, on couches and beds and eating surfaces. Even get a bucket of cow muck and dump it on the bath mat. The one that caught hold of me so I stored it in my head for latter contemplation was the idea of stripping off completely and asking, coolly, "How's this?"

Sabine's birthday came, and I proudly held back on my present for her. I made a big deal about it. I even blindfolded her. She was so excited. And then I told her that we were there, and she took it off, and there we where – in the middle of a plot of land that was mainly bare patches of earth but

"It's a garden," I said, feeling my heart sink. But it didn't stay sunk for long, because a great big smile spread across her face at my words, and then grew wider when she noticed the large red flowers I'd already planted there; the start I had made for her.

When we – the party for her – walked back to the house, my father revealed he had had a second present for Sabine. He said that my "little project" had given him the opportunity to get his proper present ready.

Sabine was crazy about the rabbits. They were two slow looking fat white things, and she loved them. She forgot about my garden, and didn't remember until days later.

Sabine went to bed early, tired from her exciting day. My father and I stood in the kitchen, washing up and clearing away the remains of the party. We were silent, and concentrating on what was in front of us, so for a few moments we both managed to forget the tension that seemed to almost be between us, I even forgot the rabbits, and I felt relaxed in his company for once.

"That was a nice party," my father said, almost to the world in general. He seemed to have forgotten little Matthew throwing cake up all over his shoes.

"Yes," I said. I placed the plate I'd been cleaning on the rake and took another one and dipped it in the water. My father came over from what he had just finished and took up the clean plate to dry.

"It's a shame your mother couldn't be here to see it," he said. For a moment I didn't breath, but I made myself relax.

"Yes," I said. "I remember her at one of my birthdays wearing that white dress she had, taking a picture of everyone."

"You were eight," he said brusquely. "I remember, because it's the year your mother got you that basketball hoop."

I paused for a moment. I remembered that hoop, but didn't associate it with that image of my mother. Besides, I knew my father had given it to me. My mother wouldn't get me something she knew I wouldn't like. I remember I invited Danny to play with me, and told him I bet he wasn't tall enough to slam-dunk it. He broke it.

"Mom didn't buy me the hoop," I said firmly. "She got me that globe of the world – the really fancy one that lights up. You got me the hoop."

"Nope, it was her who got the hoop," my father insisted, a touch of terseness entering his voice. It was starting to feel like normal again. "She wanted to encourage you to be more active."

"What do you mean?" I said. "Mom didn't have a problem with my behaviour."

My father let out a sigh.

"She was worried about you," my father said. "You spent so much time alone, reading…"

"Don't lie," I interrupted, starting to loose my temper.

"I'm not lying," my father said. "You were young, you couldn't really know what she was thinking. Her concerns were adults' concerns."

My hands started to shake and I dropped the scrubbing brush and started to walk away. I couldn't loose my cool. I couldn't loose my cool.

"Ben, where are you going?" my father said angrily as he threw down his drying up cloth.

I spun around, my fists clenched and my eyes feeling like they were burning fury into my father.

"You never understood her," I almost shouted. "And you know why? Huh? You want to know why? Because you're an outsider. An impostor! You don't belong like she and I did."

"Me? _I'm_ the outsider?" He scoffed. "You were never quite right, Ben. The way you stare. The way you almost never seem to react. Slouching around like some kind of retard."

I waited a few moments to react, calming myself whilst I walked around the table, touching the smooth wood with my hand. I looked up at him. He looked like he was about to burst.

"Sure – I never react," I said quietly. "I don't want to give you the satisfaction. You're always pushing me and pushing me. Goading me. You're…" I paused for affect, and pronounced the word clearly, "…pathetic."


	3. Part III

**3**

On the first anniversary of my mother's death my father didn't come home for dinner. For a month, since Sabine's first birthday, there'd been a sense of anticipation in the house. My own birthday had come and gone in that time, marking another year of my life, without much fuss on even my part.

I put Sabine to bed, read a few dozen pages of the Brothers Karamazov, and then turned off my bedroom light. My mind kept on ticking. I thought about family, about fathers and sons. I wondered what it would be like to have a brother. I wondered if my own father would ever marry again, and decided that on a small island like this it was unlikely. Surely he couldn't find anyone who could replace my mother? I felt tears prick my eyes and tried to push her out of my head.

I woke up with my heart thudding. A noise had woken me from the light sleep that I'd been falling in and out of all night. I strained my ears, trying to hear what it had woken me, and my hearing was suddenly assaulted by a loud crash. My heart jumped up into my throat and I gripped my blanket, the only thing stopping me from crying out being that I was holding my breath.

I kept listening but heard nothing more. After a few deep breaths I got out of bed and walked through the darkness to the living room. When I switched on the living room light I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror – a pale, chubby boy wearing tartan pyjama bottoms and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, with deep shadows under his eyes and the start of acne making it's appearance on my face.

My attention was immediately grabbed by the mess near the door – my was father lying in a crumpled heap, face down with one leg under and one leg over the armchair that was now lying on its side.

I took a few steps forwards and then paused, a little uncertain of what to do. I'd never seen him like this before, and I was a little frightened both of him and for him, as well as being ashamed. He surely wouldn't like me to see him like this, but I couldn't just leave him there.

"Dad?" I ventured. Nothing. I took a few more steps and knelt down beside him.

"Dad," I repeated, shaking him gingerly, true concern in my voice. "Dad. Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

My father stirred, causing me to snatch my hand back and recoiling from him, and mumbled something. I couldn't make out what he said, but took hold of him and pushed him into some resemblance of upright. I caught a whiff of him and held my breath. He stank of spirits and vomit.

"Dad, you stink," I said with no consequences, because he heard that I spoke but not what I spoke.

I got up and untangled him from the chair, one leg at a time, set the chair upright, and then used all my puny strength to get my father upright and leaning against the chair. He grunted and opened his eyes, his lids struggling to stay that way, and he looked at me. His eyes were glazed over, blinking sleepily, and he didn't seem to really see me. He breathed out heavily and groaned.

"Wait a sec," I said.

I went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. It was cold. The water we get comes straight (almost straight) from an underground spring. It's always cold, even at midday on the hottest day of the year. It was my father who set up the water system. He was a plumber, and a good one, and he was handy with all sorts of other useful things like that.

I knelt back down beside him, and offered him the glass, but he didn't seem to understand.

"Drink," I told him. He pushed my hand away, making noises of rejection.

"You should drink this, Dad," I said, and tried to give it to him again. This time he struck the glass from my hand with a sweep of arm. It hit the floor and skid along, coming to a halt and half spinning. The water splashed my father and me, and spread out to form a pool on the floor. I left the glass where it was.

I crouched by him hesitantly. Maybe it would be better to leave him there, on his own, to look after himself. It was his own fault he was like this, anyway. I noticed a cut on his forehead that he must have got when he fell over the chair. It was small but bleeding a fair amount. I fought the urge to reach out and touch the trickle of blood.

"Help me up," he said.

"What?"

My father repeated himself, starting to get to his knees and putting his hand on my shoulder to try and push himself up. I stood up myself and steadied him as he rose. When he'd gained an upright position, he started to walk away from me and stumbled, grabbing hold of the table and making the legs scrap against the floor. I rushed forwards and touched his elbow.

"Perhaps it's better if you sit down, Dad," I said, about to guide him back to the chair.

My father swung around and grabbed my shirt by the collar, wrenching me towards him. There was a tearing noise and I found my nose almost touching his as the real force of the concoction of smells that clung to my father hit my senses. Vomit, grease, sweat, alcohol. Perfume. Fear and anger rose up inside of me, writhing and wrestling each other for prevalence. Fear won.

My breaths caught in my throat, and when they did manage to escape they came out loud and undisciplined. I couldn't control them. I felt powerless. He lifted me up, so I was on tiptoes, and shook me roughly. His eyes bulged, and I felt mine widen with terror.

"Don't tell me what to do," my father spat, and then threw me down on the ground before staggered sideways.

"You freak," he added quietly, half to himself.

I kicked myself away from him and pushed myself up against the wall, shocked and shaken at such a sudden outburst. He stumbled over to a cabinet and got out a glass and a bottle of liquor, but as he poured he dropped the glass and it smashed on the floor. He swore loudly, and called it "typical."

He gave up on the glass and drank straight from the bottle. I hated to see him doing that. It's a horrible thing for a child to see his father act in that way. I grew angrier and angrier with him as I watched him pour that poison down his throat. How dare he. He had responsibility. He had an example to set. What about Sabine? What about _me_?

I saw red. I couldn't take it anymore and stormed over to him.

"Don't!" I shouted, grabbing hold of the glass in his hand. "You're disgusting! I wish you weren't my Dad."

It was then that he shook off my grip and hit me, still with the glass in his hand.

This was the first time he had hit me since I was a small child, and the only time he did it with such intent, but I made up my mind never to let myself snap like that, never to give someone an excuse to get at me in any way, never to show how frightened I was. It didn't work like that, of course, but gradually, as the years went by, I became hardened to the influence of other people.


	4. Part IV

_A/N – I've recently realised how miserable this fic is been until now (and later), so I thought I'd give you a humorous quote as a present in an attempt to either a) keep you from giving up on reading because this is too gloomy, or b) keep you from falling into downward spiral of pessimism, becoming despondent and drawing back from every kind of life entirely, which would include this site. I'd also like to spread the Brigstocke love. He da bomb. _

_This was said by Marcus Brigstocke about David Blain when he failed his "Drowned Alive" stunt:_

_"You're not magic. You're not a fish. You're not even a wizard, you are simply a moist git."_

_(It's actually more of a "Brigstocke hate", but, in all seriousness, can love really be as funny as hate?)_

_And I promise least a small period of squishiness later on…_

**4**

Sabine kept her rabbits in two large hutches a little way away from our house. There used to be just two of them, but they bred, and their offspring bred, and soon we had dozens. We had to separate them so they wouldn't breed further, otherwise life would be springing from their straw beds in uncontrollable amounts. I imagined them escaping and rampaging across the island, and that we'd have to build a massive rabbit proof fence right across it like they did in Australia.

The rabbits flourished and multiplied, but wasn't until after our father died, and before Alex came into our lives, that one kicked the bucket. Sabine was sad, and we had a funeral in her garden, setting aside a little plot with a wicker fence made by Sabine and Amelia. You could tell who made which bit. Sabine cut a bouquet of the gaudiest flowers she grew and placed it on the grave, and she even wrote a eulogy.

A few days later we sat watching a new film that we'd been given, Sabine with her legs curled up on the couch and leaning against me with her thumb in her mouth.

The film was Bambi. I'd never seen it before, and when Thumper, a white rabbit, turned up I was taken by surprise. I glanced at Sabine to see if she had reacted at all, and throughout the film I kept on giving her sidelong looks.

"Sabine," I said when the credits started, squeezing her shoulder. "You're alright, aren't you? If you want to talk about your rabbit…"

"I'm ok," she said, squinting up at me. "Death is part of life. Isabel said so. And it's not like when Dad died. Lorenzo was old for a bunny."


	5. Part V

_A/N I had no idea what La Llorona was, so I looked it up and … well, "and"._

**5**

I mentioned how my father died, that he'd fallen off a cliff and snapped his neck, but I didn't tell you that I was there with him when it happened. I failed to mention that to most people. To almost everyone. To all but one.

It was the day before my eighteenth birthday, almost three weeks after I had given Sabine her garden. My Dad took me out on a walk. He meant well, I suppose. He wanted to do the growing up talk. I didn't think I needed it, but I thought I'd go along with it anyway.

He took me to the sea, to the cliff that would soon be where he died. It was a clear, still day, bright and hot and calm. The sea looked oddly hostile in its endless tranquillity. We stood together a little way away from the edge of the cliff, under the shade of a pine tree.

I'm not sure what happened exactly, I look back on it and wonder if I said something, did something, that caused him to do what he did. We were just talking. There was no affection between us, no particular desire to be there, but neither was there outward aggression. Something clicked in his head and he jumped at me.

He had his hands around my neck, squeezing with all his might. I spluttered and coughed and gasped for air. I could see him straining, his face red and the vein on his neck bulging menacingly. I tore at his hands with him to try and loosen his grip, and it was not until I jerked and twisted my body before I managed to break free.

I scrabbled up the slope, away from him, but he grabbed hold of my arm and swung me with all his weight towards the cliff edge. I threw myself down to the ground before I went over, and my father, still holding my arm, tumbled over me and down to the rocks below. He let go of me in time so that I didn't follow him down, but I was left with my legs dangling over the edge of a sheer drop into the sea.


	6. Part VI

_A/N – Ah, brilliant. Desires to hug… my plan in making excuses for Ben's evilness and getting people to sympathises with him is working… __**MWAHAHA**__… (I don't know why that requires an __**evil laugh**__. Perhaps I'm __**manipulating**__ you…)_

_And a white dress, eh? You've almost inspired me to completely change my plot. It involves __**Ben in a dress**__. I can't decide whether it'd actually be white, or stripy like those _**classy**_** shirts**__ of his._

**6**

After my father died I wasn't allowed to look after Sabine on my own, even though that's pretty much what I'd been doing for the last half decade. We both went to live with Tom, the menial worker in his thirties who had given Sabine a doll for her birthday. He didn't have much to do at the time.

My life suddenly changed. Sabine started going regularly to the schoolhouse, and with Tom there, too, I had whole swathes of time free. Those who felt responsible for me decided that I should have something to do. I was, at eighteen, technically an adult. They began giving me administrative jobs, and organisation duties, as well as odd bits and pieces that needed to be done.

I still had a lot of free time. I liked to be on my own, and took to taking long walks around the island. That's how I found Helen, years later, wondering the coastline of the island in hope of finding inhabitants, lost and alone.


	7. Part VII

**7**

"Hey!" was the first thing I heard her say; I heard before I even glimpsed her. I turned around slowly, and saw Helen.

She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen – even with her brown hair a tangled mess and filthy clothes. I hated her at first sight.

She smiled brightly at me, eagerly telling me her story and asking me about myself. Where did I come from? Is there a community here? With showers? And real beds? And ice cream?!

She told me that her full name was Helen Murphy, and that she had been on a long distance sailing trip with her friend, Polly, and Polly's dad and brother. She and Polly were both twenty-three… no, Polly was still twenty-two. They'd hit a storm, a big one, but that would have been ok. Something went wrong that Helen didn't really understand, and then they'd somehow ended up on the beach, with half the boat in the jungle. Polly's father was dead, and her little brother was missing, but later Polly had gotten ill. Dysentery was what Helen thought it must have been. She laughed when she said that it was always Polly who had been affected by "dodgy" takeaways (Polly's dad was English, apparently).

I showed the needed sympathy and friendly, and invited her to come with me, said that we'd look after her. She beamed at me, and told jokes and laughed as she told her tragedy. She seemed more excited than traumatised. She didn't ask who "we" were, and I wasn't quite sure what "we" would do with her once she was at the village.

I was eager to get back, but cautious about pushing her physically; she looked a little weak. I wondered what her fate would be. It might end up all right for her, but then again, it might not. I wasn't that concerned, I just wanted to get back, and reign in another stray wondering around the island.

Then something happened. As we walked side by side, Helen tripped on a tree root and fell against a tree. I quickly moved over to her and steadied her, and then with one look at me she burst into tears and buried her face in my shoulder.

With this simple event I was struck to the core that she was a real person. Before she was just a problem, another castaway on the island. Somehow I found her feelings laid out in front of me like the map I had begun to see people as, but to actually see it for what it was – not cold hard symbols and facts – and it was a map with textures and colours so real as to almost jump out and touch me. She had been alone for so long, and now she was in human contact again. I was what she had been hoping for for so long. Me.

I changed my mind about taking her back in that moment. I told her I couldn't take her. When she asked me why, I couldn't think. I could only feel this feeling like my insides where being ripped up, and every time she looked at me, every time she said my name, an extra heave would twist my guts up further.


	8. Part VIII

_A/N: I think a little explanation would be helpful here. Think of what's been going on before as flashbacks. This is the beginning of the real-time events. They're in the present tense, so it should be easy to pick them out. I probably don't need to tell you this, but just in case…_

_The flashbacks are going to jump around even more, now, with less indication as to the time (eg. "When my father died"), but I think I've written it clear enough. If I haven't please don't hesitate to point it out. It's difficult to know when you're the writer whether it's confusing or not, because of course you know what's going on!_

_Enjoy, and reviews are always welcome ;)._

**8**

I sit at my reading desk trying to get through another chapter of Carrie, but I can't concentrate. I had another argument with Alex last night.

I don't like her and that Karl boy. I should have seen it coming. I could have avoided it. I suppose it's too late, now.

Alex thinks I'm just being an overprotective father, but there's nothing "over" about it. If it were up to me, Alex would never be with anyone. I don't know what I'd do if I lost her. I've already lost Sabine. It's all been decided about Karl, and that has been decided for her own good, and his. It can't be taken back, and Alex will never forgive me. As if I have any control over the decision now it's been made (not that I'd change the decision if I could). She doesn't understand about Jacob – not really.

I sigh deeply and close the book. I try not to think about Alex. I look up, stare about the room. On the walls are carved masks from places I've never been to, and pictures. If I turn around and look to my left – or what would be my right once facing the other direction – I would see pictures of Alex – so I don't turn, and I don't look right.

I look across the room instead, and catch sight of Sabine's paintings. I move my sight across the wall, from one side to the other. Ship on the sea, island from a distance. All things from her life. I stop, looking at the biggest picture. A woman sits on a wicker chair, holding a small creature in her lap. She's smiling. There's a red plant in a pot behind her, and green foliage makes up the rest of the background. She's wearing a white dress.


	9. Part IX

**9**

I managed to convince Helen to stay away by merely being agitated about her coming to our settlement. I wouldn't tell her why, I just told her it was a bad idea for her.

"You have to trust me," I said. "Do you trust me?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"I'm not a liar," I said.

"I know."

She smiled at me and I couldn't look at her in the eye. My face felt hot. I could have sworn I was blushing. I never blush.

I showed her to some caves where she could stay. She shivered when she looked into one which seemed just blackness. I said, reluctantly, "I have to go," and stood there dumbly. I wanted to hug her, to kiss her, to touch her in some way as a way of saying "Goodbye. Don't worry. I'm coming back." I wanted to touch her, because I wanted to make sure she was real.

In the end she solved this problem for me. She reached out and squeezed my forearm.

"Goodbye," she said. "And thank you, Ben."

I smiled weakly, mumbled a quick "Bye", and left like a frightened child.


	10. Parts X to XVI

_A/N: Sorry I took so long to post - I had exams :s. But here's the next seven chapters for your pleasure, and they'll be more to come._

**10**

"Look what I drew, Ben."

I wasn't really interested, but I pretended to be.

Sabine had burst into the house and, after dropping her satchel, gone straight for me, pressing her thin body against mine and pushing a piece of paper under my nose. I was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of green tea in my hands.

"Oh, how pretty!" I said, my hands cupped around my mug.

Sabine huffed and shook her head.

"You didn't even look properly," she exclaimed. "And don't patronise me."

She stuck her tongue out.

I sighed and took the paper from her hand, and made a better effort. I kicked up the pace when I realised that people would notice if I was distracted. I was frightened that Helen – wonderful, exquisite, Helen – I was afraid that she'd be found, and about what might happen to her.

I got away as soon as I could, and lay on my bed in my room. As I lay there I thought of Helen's pure desire for, and her simple excitement at the thought of a bed. I moved my hand to where she'd squeezed my arm, trying to recreate the pressure. I thought about her smile. Her laugh. I thought about how her eyes crinkled as she did these things, and I thought about how my chest seemed to fill up with bubbles every time. I closed my eyes and thought about her lips. I touched my own with my hand, and then snatched it away. Oh, how silly I was being.

Silliness was something I abhorred. But here I was, obsessing on a near stranger! And the emotions it was inspiring in me were something I couldn't pin down. They were simultaneously joyful and painful. I was full of joy. I was full of pain.

I couldn't stand it. I had to get up, to move, to do _something_. I swung my legs round and stood up. I paced the room, picked up a book, stared blankly at the pages as if I'd forgotten what to do with it, and went back to pacing the room. I sat down at my desk and started to right down words for Helen on a piece of paper. Heavenly. Hypnotising. Hot. I couldn't think of any more "H" words after that and was soon on my feet again.

**11**

In my dream, Jacob tells me I have cancer. I say I don't believe him, though I know it must be true.

"Why?" I say. "How?"

He won't tell me, or he can't. I turn around a ask Alex, and she won't tell me even if she could. Helen stands behind her, as radiant as I remember her and more. I don't ask her because I know she cannot talk, because the dead are mute, and I know she doesn't know, because the dead do not deal with the finer details of the living.

I wake up and find myself dozing at my desk. I'm drooling slightly and wipe the saliva from my cheek, embarrassed though nobody is around to see me.

The next day I've almost finished Carrie and when Juliet arrives tells me I have a tumour. As she tells me several things swim around in my head. I think about Alex, wonder how she'd react, I think about the dream I had. I wonder if Juliet was with Goodwin last night. I wonder if she's really as cold about the news as she seems or if she's even slightly upset. I wonder if there really is a how or a why to all of this.

Juliet notices my reaction but cannot have any idea why I react how I do – it's the dream. The dream already told me. She asks me why I'm scared.

"I'm not scared," I tell her.

She doesn't seem to believe me. She accuses me of lying about her sister, and I deny it. I didn't lie to her. I hate the thought of lying to Juliet.

She asks me the same question I asked in my dream, and I tell her the truth. I don't know. I don't know. I tell her this, and she knocks my glass of water from my hand. It smashes. I think about my father. She pushes me, she's shouting at me. She calls me a liar, yells it, and it pierces me.

I maintain my innocence, and she stops shouting. Instead she starts to cry and puts her head down on my shoulder. I breathe deep. I think about Helen. I try not to let myself go the same way I did then, as if I'm not already half way there. She asks me, please, to let her go home.

"No," I tell her. I can't look her in the eyes as I say this. I walk off, leaving her with her grief and am alone with my thoughts. Voices play in my head. _You have to go home. I can't do it on my own. I don't want to be alone again. Leave, now. Please go. You'll be ok. I promise. I'll find you._

I won't let her go home because it can only bring bad things. And I won't lie to her.

_I'll find you. You'll be ok._

**12**

I never felt anything for anyone the way I felt for Helen. She was, and in a way still is, the love of my life. Nobody knew but the two of us, and now just it's just me who knows. Not even Sabine knew. She thought I was poor, loveless, lonely brother, Ben.

When she reached her mid teens and the idea of love had really taken hold of her imagination, Sabine started to try and push me into relationships. "Isn't Colleen nice?" she might say when a new arrival would enter a community. She'd lean over and say it in a low voice tinted with conspiracy, a smile fluttering over her mouth and a gleam of hope and encouragement in her eyes.

"She's spirited," I might reply. "But not my type. Besides, Danny's got the hots for her."

Sabine would mock sulk, why do you do this to me, Ben? Why can't I set you up with a nice, sweet girl? Do want me to die without grandchildren?

"Sabine you know I can't help you with that," I'd say. "Besides, it's illegal."

Sabine would fondly push me and giggle her sweet, soft giggle; I'd try not to laugh at my own joke.

"Oh, _Ben_, I want nieces and nephews!"

"What about Alex?" I'd ask. Sabine would shrug.

"Not the same. She's just some baby."

"So were you."

"I was Mom's baby."

**13**

When Helen embraced me on my return to the caves it felt like she'd winded me. She hit me with a fearful force and wrapped her arms around me, holding on tight, and I in turn clutched her to me. I breathed in the smell of her skin. The scenery behind her blurred and I blinked back my tears. Get a hold of yourself, man, you're twenty-two. It was unreal seeing her again, and I didn't feel any less about her than I had before.

"I was afraid you weren't coming back," she said shakily, her mouth near my ear. I could feel (just) her breath against my skin.

We separated, still holding onto each other's arms and looking at each other.

"I'm sorry I took so long," I said. It had been three days since we'd parted. "I couldn't get away sooner."

"Where are my manners?" Helen said, wiping her eyes with her hands and looking around at the caves.

"Please," she said, curtseying slightly and smiling. "Sit down."

She gestured to a rock, and sat herself down on one end of it. I bowed and said what a lovely sitting room she had, and sat next to her, about half a metre away. There was a pregnant pause, and then I shook myself out of silence.

"I brought you some food," I said, taking the bundle wrapped in greaseproof paper from my bag, and holding it up before laying it in the space between us. "And a blanket. I'm afraid I couldn't bring the bed or the shower, and the ice cream would have melted without a freezer. That'll have to wait."

"Thanks," she laughed, and took the package, unwrapping it eagerly. She bit into the chicken leg

"I saved the dark meat for you," I ventured.

"I prefer the white," Helen said through a mouthful as she held her hand over her mouth. She swallowed. "Sorry. But this is gorgeous anyway."

I desperately wanted to say "_You're_ gorgeous." Danny was right. I didn't have any balls.

"Erm… thanks," Helen said. She was blushing.

"What?!" I said. I didn't say that aloud did, I?

"You're pretty cute yourself," she said, flashing me a smile. I felt my heart skip a beat. I didn't think myself cute – I was still pale, now skinny with no meat on my bones, I slouched, and I had my father's bulging eyes and bags to go with them – but I believed her.

**14**

"What about her mother?"

"Her mother?"

"Yes, Ben," said Isabel. "She'll wonder about her mother."

I thought for a moment, gazing into the middle difference, and then switched to Isabel's face.

"Of course she will," I said. "Children always do about dead mothers. Sabine always did."

Isabel smiled and nodded.

"Remember it's all in the details," she said. "And everyone has to comply."

"That's true, but not much of a problem," I said. "Helen wasn't long on the island. There isn't that much to know."

**15**

Nothing happened between Helen and me on that first visit, or on the next, or the next. I thought about her all day, dreamt of her all night. I longed for her company when I was away and but when I was with her I was always aware of the fact that she was a secret, and that there was a danger of me being there.

I would bring her food, books, and little luxuries. I brought her a torch that I mended so as to not take one that might be missed, I brought her a mirror, cracked, and a basin, and a saucepan and a jug. I wavered over a gun, and in the end decided against it, partly because it would almost certainly be missed.

She wanted to go back to her boat, still lying half in the jungle, for the she could use from there, but I wouldn't let her. I told her that if she took those things from the boat then if "they" found the boat then they'd know you where somewhere out here.

"What are you so afraid of?" she asked me. "You live with these people, what on earth would they do?"

"I can't tell you the truth," I said. "And I don't want to lie to you."

On my fourth visit, a fortnight after I found her on the beach, I brought Helen about a quarter of a loaf of bread, two rashers of bacon, and a water bottle half full of cooking oil. I found her in a fitful sleep, with a pallid complexion and a film of sweat covering her body. When I woke she stretched and smiled at me, croaking a "good afternoon."

If it had not been for one particular reason, I would have been relieved at that, and thought that she would be all right. That reason was that I'd never seen anyone ill before. I'd heard about illness, but never encountered it. We didn't get ill.

I couldn't stay with her, but I wished I could. For three days I visited her whenever I felt I could, bringing her anything I thought could help. She laughed at me, laughed at my distress. I told her that this was the first time that I'd seen someone ill. She seemed unnerved by this, not sure whether to believe me.

For the first two days her state was pretty much constant. On the third day, she started to worry a little, too.

"I'm not feeling any worse," she said to me. "But I'm not used to being ill this long. I should be better by now."

I had to leave her then, but returned after my dinner. It was getting dark, and I discovered her condition had worsened. She was burning up, and couldn't focus on me. She couldn't seem to keep hold of an idea long enough to say anything, and she kept on drifting in and out of semi-consciousness. At one point she was delirious, talking to people that weren't there about things that didn't make sense.

I stayed with her. I had to. I couldn't leave her there in that condition, on her own, with nobody to look after her, nobody to care for her. I sat over her, watching her, not able to really do anything practical at all.

**16**

"Tell me about Mommy."

"Alex, sweetie, I don't feel like it tonight," I said. Mommy had become Alex's favourite bedtime story.

"Oh, _please_, Daddy," she said. "I'll love you forever and ever and ever."

"Oh, but I know you'll love me forever anyway," I replied, smiling.

Alex screwed up her face, annoyed at this remark.

"Dad_dy_," she said, and carried on trying to get the story with insistence. "Was she very smart?"

I sighed.

"Yes she was very smart," I said, giving in.

"And was she a scientist?"

"Yes, she was."

"What kind of scientist."

"Your mother, was a marine biologist."

"With dolphins?" Alex smiled at the thought.

"Yes, with dolphins."

"And sharks?" There was a gleeful glint in her eye.

"That's right."

"And what was her name?"

"You know this story as well as I do, Alex, you tell me."

"Ok. She was called Helen, like Helen of Troy, who was the most beautiful woman in the world. But Mommy was even more beautiful than her…"

"Hang on," I said. "I never claimed that."

Alex grinned.

"You always talk like she was," Alex said smugly and then continued with the story. "Anyway, she was incredibly beautiful, but when you first saw her, instead of falling in love with her, you hated her. But then you spoke to her, and she stole your heart. Sabine noticed, and she wanted you to have your heart back. She realised that there wasn't anyway for you or her to do that, and the only thing you could do was to steal Helen's heart in return, so that you would both have to stay together. She tried to get you to steal it, but you wouldn't. Then Mommy got sick, very sick, and you got ill with worry almost. On her sickest night you sat by her bed all night, and early in the morning she told you that in fact you had already stolen her heart. And then you got married and I was born. Then End."

The story always ended at Alex's birth.

**16**

I woke up to see a weak but well looking Helen smiling softly at me. I had fallen asleep lying next her, a couple of hours ago. It was still dark, but the remnants of the fire I had kept going lit up her features with a gentle glow.

"Hi," she said, quietly. She had reached out and touched my face with her hand. A shiver of pleasure and relief went through my limbs.

"You've got better?" I whispered in what was almost just breath.

She nodded, her palm still resting against my cheek. I reached my arms out and gathered her up in an embrace; joy rushing through my tired body.

"I'm so glad. I was frightened you wouldn't make it."

She shifted and turned herself towards me. Before I could register what was happening, I felt her lips against mine, and we kissed.


End file.
